


i have made my bed on charnels and on coffins

by vanasha



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Am i the only one that is a bit in love with Adiris though?, Body Horror, Dissociation, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, F/F, Forced Kissing, Lesbian Sex, Like I get things can be kinda gross but you don't have all the facts. Which are that I love her, Mentions of gore and blood, Mentions of vomit and sickness, NSFW, Other, Reader can be female or nb though. i don't think I wrote anything super detailed, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Adiris | The Plague, Vaginal Fingering, because duh, this is about Adiris | The Plague, touch-starved reader, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 00:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanasha/pseuds/vanasha
Summary: You're the only survivor left in the trial of Adiris | The Plague.Things don't look too good for you.





	i have made my bed on charnels and on coffins

**Author's Note:**

> Listen... I know. I really do.  
> But at the same time, come on. The instant I saw Adiris I was head over heels for her, and I know she's kind of gross and icky and also kind of dead, but what was I supposed to do?! The heart wants what the heart wants, am I right?

The others are dead.

You saw them dying. You heard them.

They're gone and a huge part of you envies them even though you know they suffered. Badly. But they're already done with their punishment, for this round at least.

(The next round is already lying in wait since you're never really done with your punishment, are you? None of you is. And who knows if you'll ever be.)

The Plague got to all of them and shit, you've been on the other end of those hands before, you've felt her throw you onto the hook, felt it pierce your chest more than once, how can you still wish she had gotten to you already?

It's messed up, that's what this is. But this is what this horror show you're participating in did to your life.

You're the only one still standing. Stumbling if you're being honest.

The lone survivor. Which in itself is a fucking joke because what is there to survive?

And fuck, you're still searching for that damn hatch like an idiot.

You can smell the decay around you and you're not sure if this is what is left from your friends or if it's _her._ The air makes you feel sick.

And she's close. She has to be. She knows you're the only one that's left, she knows what you're looking for and if she finds it first? You're screwed. More so than you were in the first place.

You hate her.

You hate all of them, of course, every survivor does. But mostly you hate the ones that aren't wearing masks. And even more than those you hate the ones that _speak_.

The masks are creepy as fuck, but on the bright side you don't have to see their expressions when they kill you. You don't want to know if they're enjoying the hunt, the kill, the pain as much as you think they do.

(You can hear it in some of them, the satisfied laugh or pleased groan.)

You've met enough of the ones without masks. And you don't know what's worse, seeing a grin on someone's face as they throw you onto a hook as if you're only a piece of meat, another one in the line of many or seeing nothing at all in their expression. As if your entire punishment, this fight for your life is only one more boring chore to them. Something they only get over with to finally be done with it. Maybe the worst thing about that is that you _get_ it.

But if they wear a mask you'll never know. And you'd rather not know.

That way you can keep telling yourself that these things aren't human beings. That if they once were, they're not anymore.

Masks are one thing you can deal with, are something you actually prefer. But if the people hunting you talk–

–the Plague is one of those killers that has a face that you have to see and worse than that, she _talks._

Sure, you don't understand a fucking word of whatever she is saying, not that you're actually listening if you happen to be close enough to hear it. If you are, it's almost too late and the only thing you should think of is to run.

But she _talks_ and that in itself freaks you out.

It's why she's very high on the list of killers that you hate the most.

Followed by the huntress.

Who talks, and _sings,_ and you nearly pissed yourself the first time you heard her.

She looks and sounds so human, and then she doesn't.

You can't sleep at the camp fire, not really, and whatever it is that you can do there is as close as you get to the actual thing. But you know that if you could get any real sleep she'd be the star in your nightmares.

Every time the huntress is chosen as the killer coming after you, you tend to be incredibly ready to help your friends. The more you help, the higher the chance that she'll spot and catch you, too. And if she catches you, all of this is just over. You don't have to hide from her, don't have to _hear_ her, don't have to stay in a place where she exists with you.

The truth is you're relieved every time you're the first one she catches and shit, what does that say about you? You tell yourself it's not that you're actually trying to kill yourself since you're not running into her on purpose. But if you just happen to be a bit... slower than you normally are, then what's the harm in it? Besides the actual harm of it, of course, because it _hurts_ , it always does. But if you just keep on struggling while you're hanging on the hook, if you keep trying to escape then you can speed things along and it hurts, yes, but it's also over a lot quicker.

You have no idea if the others know. It's not like you're forcing them to help you out of the mess you got yourself in, it's not like you wait around long enough for them to come get you. And you don't think you noticed any of them behaving differently when you're on the hook. You never really talk much about how scared you are, _why_ you are so scared. You figure that all of you have their own cross to bear and maybe they don't want to know.

But the Plague?

For some reason she freaks you out in a completely different way than the huntress, with her face masked and only her voice driving you mad.

The Plague's face is a fucking creepy one, yeah, but you can still see it. You can see what she once was, the parts of her that still _are_ in a way.

You can see what she maybe still _is,_ underneath all of this, and you just –

– you just don't want to know.

You don't want to see.

And then you see the hatch in exactly the same moment the Plague sees you.

You freeze for a second but that is all she needs.

It's all they ever need.

You try to run past her, around her, just get _the fuck_ away from her but then her censer hits you and you crush head-first into the ground like the idiot you are. Your skin prickles when you hear her breathe behind you, so much like the Nurse, as if she's struggling to get air into her lungs.

With parts of her body rotting away, that's probably no surprise.

She's onto you faster than you anticipated. You're not that badly hurt, you've had worse but you feel dizzy and that is the worst fucking thing because it means your movement is slower and it's. Too. Fucking. Slow.

If you weren't so out of it you'd still be able to get up and drag yourself away from her but you are and that means she's already turned you around before you even know it. Her hand clutches your wrist, sharp nails and sharper rings press into your skin, keeps your hand down in the dirt. Her other one frantically tries to get a hold of her censer, the metal chain rattles distantly in the back of your mind. She probably wants to hit you one more time to knock you out for good and to stop your screaming and cursing which at this point is nothing more than a reflex. Because what does it matter anymore? There is nobody left but you and her and you were so fucking close but you messed things up again as you always do and her face is so close and you just need to get away from it because you can't stand it.

Maybe you end up lucky and she's going to hit you close to unconsciousness. Drag you onto the nearest hook without you really being there and god, you wish for it. It's preferable over the other way this can go, with you fucked up beyond recognition like that one time Meg had been spotted by the Plague. You didn't see it yourself and you're thankful for that but she told you about it. How the Plague vomited all over her, turned her into a sickly, frail shell of a human being and how Meg didn't even have it in her to crawl away from her afterwards. She died right there on the spot, in a pool of her own blood and spit with her killer watching.

You cry and you choke on nothing but air that just doesn't do its job in your lungs and the Plague still can't reach her fucking censer. You wish she would, would just finally hit you once and for all and why the fuck did she let go of it in the first place? The only thing you want to do is to wait it out, to just stop fighting back and dragging this along but your body doesn't listen to you. It still tries to throw her off, still claws at her robes, her arms, her face, everything in your reach.

You feel how her skin peels off beneath your nails and you imagine you can hear it. You distantly taste bile in your mouth while you smell her rotten flesh, hear her pained grunts and you know she hasn't done her weird vomit magic trick yet but you already feel sick enough as it is.

The Plague gives up in her frantic search for her weapon, her hand clutches your neck and it leaves you gasping for air.

 _Finally_ you're getting to something.

Before your vision becomes hazy you wonder why she hasn't thrown up all over you already.

If maybe she's just as sick and tired of this as you are.

At last your body finally gives up. Accepts what your mind has been all too ready for. Your hand on her arm drops down to her wrist, loses its grip until it's motionless on hers, almost mockingly soft on her scarred and ugly skin, as if you only want to hold her close. It couldn't be further away from the truth.

Your hand is on hers and the Plague tilts her head.

You don't want to see her face but you can't look away, even through your tears.

Her eyes burn into yours.

She stops.

Automatically you gasp for air. Just to regret it instantly, not only because fuck, you really just wanted to die, but also because the Plague reeks. A lot. You wanted your next breath to be the air around the campfire, a fresh breeze compared to this smell of death that's oozing off your killer.

Figures that you were so close to the end just to be pushed back again. Life here sucks like that.

You know that you're no good to her dead and you forgot about it like some fucking rookie. You need to be _offered_ to whatever it is that keeps you here and what fun would that be if you weren't conscious to enjoy the hook? To vomit your way to your death?

So you lie under her, try not to breathe while you wait for the next blow, the stream of sickness that comes off her and onto you, anything really.

You know that you're still completely out of it when the thought strikes you that she's actually quite beautiful. At least the parts of her that don't look like they melted away a long time ago.

You slowly blink when you pay attention to her hands on you. They never left you. One is still at your wrist, pushing it down with less pressure as before, considering that you're still just lying here. But it's the other hand that worries you, the more rotten one your neck that you clawed into when she choked you.

Because this hand now holds yours.

Almost caresses it.

As if she allows it to touch her, as if she wants you to feel her skin beneath yours. As if she wants to feel yours.

She stares at you without any expression at all.

Waiting.

And you have no idea for what because it doesn't seem to be the same thing you're waiting for.

(For her to lash out, for her to finally just kill you, for things to finally just stop.)

You want to throw her off and you want to scream and you want to cry and more than anything else you just want to be done with this. With being killed, with being hunted, with being killed again, with surviving this, with –

– you just want to go _home_.

And now you lie here under this fucking ugly and beautiful and somehow living corpse and you don't know why. You know that the only reason you're still breathing is that she's letting you and that you don't want her to. You wish for her fucking hand to be back on your throat, cutting off your air supply. Is this some new sort of punishment? For her to promise you death, lure you in only to then take it away from you once you reach for it?

You hold your breath because you really don't know what to do, what she wants from you and you _really_ don't want to breath her in when you slowly move your hand over hers.

And then over her arm.

You feel the nearly gooey texture of some parts of it and you want to wince because oh my god, this is so gross but you live on borrowed time anyway and the worst thing that could happen is that she kills you. Which also happens to be exactly what you want so you pull yourself together.

She still only stares at you with vibrant green eyes, her head tilted to the side, as if she's not sure what she's going to do with you.

At least you're both on the same page when it comes to that.

But she doesn't strangle you anymore, she still has yet to vomit all over you and she doesn't beat you to a pulp which might be something. Good or bad, you'll have to decide that later.

You swallow (down bile, fear, common sense) and your hand trails up her arm to her collarbone.

Her neck.

Her face.

Keeping your eyes on her face for the slightest hint of movement, the tiniest bit of expression, anything really, and this is somehow harder than anything else you ever did because you have to look at her, and then your hand cups her cheek.

Your heart stutters when the Plague closes her eyes.

When she leans into your hand.

Oh shit.

(oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit_.)

You're glad she doesn't see what little is left of your poker face fall because oh shit. What the hell does that even mean.

(Did you hit your head harder than you thought when she knocked you down? Did _she_?)

The skin beneath your hand feels like your leg during that one time you got caught in one of the Trapper's bear traps. When Claudette hadn't been fast enough to do both, help you to escape and heal you in time. She had gotten you down from the hook when both of you felt the Trapper closing up, and she had looked back and forth between you and the place she had come from. Wasting so much precious time.

Sweet Claudette, so conflicted that you could have laughed if you hadn't been busy bleeding out. You had both known that if she dragged you with her you'd slow her down. But you had appreciated her hesitation before you pushed her away for good. The only thing you were good for was to buy her more time and that was what you did. It had still fucking hurt to be left behind like that but it hadn't been the worst. That was to see the Trapper take his time to gain on you because he knew you had no chance of running. And even if you somehow managed to do that, the blood dripping from your leg would lay out a trail of gory bread crumbs for him to find you again. You had kept your hand on the wound without thinking about it because what else was there for you to do? And you had nearly thrown up when you touched it, your leg all greasy and wet, your skin hanging off where the claws of the trap cut in it.

You've never been good with that gross shit and some things apparently never change, not even after the millionth round of murderous hide-and-seek.

Now the Plague's rotten face is above yours and it's gross, but then she opens her eyes and you think your heart start stops.

Her face is still as expressionless as ever and yet something seems different.

Off.

(Then again, what did you know, you've never been this close to her without sooner or later hanging on a hook.)

Fuck it.

Fuck it, you've never been great at taking the initiative at anything in your life but that was before you came here. Now that's all you can ever do, that's the only choice you're still given here, the only choice that's still yours to make.

The worst possible outcome of this fucking situation is a slow death and you've been there, done that so what did you have to lose?

That is why when she opens her mouth (to vomit? to _speak?_ ), her face _still_ in your hand, your life in hers, you don't think.

You take initiative.

So you close your eyes and pull her face towards you, press your lips against hers.

And it's gross.

It's incredibly gross.

If you thought she reeked badly, she tastes even worse but what the fuck did you expect from kissing a corpse?

Her lips lie motionless against yours and you have no idea what that means, and you don't dare to open your eyes and look at her face again to find out.

You have no idea what you expected her to do.

For her to kill you quickly and without thinking twice about it because you're crazy? To kill you slowly because of it? That maybe you'd infect yourself right at the source with whatever plague she carries, whatever plague she _is_ , without any foreplay like her vomiting on you to just finally be done?

You didn't think that far.

Hell, you didn't think at all.

And now you hesitate before you open your eyes because shit, did you manage the impossible and make things even worse for you?

But then your eyes go wide _because she still stares at you_.

And then she moves.

She pulls away from you at first (oh shit, you messed up, you messed up, _you messed up_ ) before she slowly closes in on you again, her lips back against yours, a touch so soft you're not sure it actually happens.

And then her hand mirrors yours, cups your cheek, carefully, impossibly carefully.

Until your eyelids become heavy without you noticing. Suddenly her nails bite into your cheek, and they only stop once she's sure you got the message loud and clear.

Eyes on me.

You can't even concentrate on the pretty parts of her face because you feel sick.

You felt sick before and you honestly can't tell if you feel worse now, you just feel sick and you know that she's the source of it. Can she infect you with her touch alone? You've got no point of comparison and this might be only a slower version of death by her sickness, by her, but it's not like you have another choice.

And this is gross and weird and it freaks you out but at least her skin doesn't come off right into your face. (It's the little things, isn't it?) The dead parts of her face feel weaker, disgustingly softer in a way you can't allow yourself to think about right now and then her hand is on your jaw, opens your mouth with only a small portion of the strength you know she has, _just_ hard enough to make sure you know it's in your best interest to not fight back.

(But then again, didn't you start this in the first place?)

You're not sure how you manage to stop yourself from crying out or throwing up or clawing the rest of the skin off of her when you feel her tongue enter your mouth. You shudder when you feel it, when you _taste_ her for god's sake, and you're still here, lying beneath her but at the same time everything feels so far away from you. As if you're watching this happen to someone else instead of you.

You thought you knew what death tasted like –

(like blood, like clawing your way through dirt, through flesh, like biting the stained hands and arms that keep pulling you towards them)

– but to kiss it is somehow even worse.

Because you're still here, no closer to death or life or freedom. You're still very much alive in this nightmare only that now you can _hear_ her sigh against you. Her hand buries itself into your hair, pulls on it in a way you actually remember you enjoyed before, back when you were still alive and real and happy and in love. The fingers of her other hand interlace with yours and god, you can't hold back a sob as tears escape your eyes.

You really want to die now. In any fucking way, because this is the most intimate touch that you've felt ever since you've been here and you share it with _her_ and you just want to die. You hate this and you hate her and you hate whatever it is that's keeping you alive and keeping you here and most of all you hate how your hand closes down on hers as if you don't ever want to let it go. How you pull her face closer to yours as you kiss her back.

She tastes like death and decay because that's what she is, but she also tastes like _something_ and it's been so long since you've tasted anything.

You actually fucking wail as she leaves your lips for a second and you'd be embarrassed about it if any part in you cared. Turns out she only pulls away to throw her head piece off and you're certain you've lost your mind when you hear the relieved noise you make as her fingers force your lips open once more and her tongue returns into your mouth.

You don't even know if it's still her that tastes so badly or if you're already infected and this is all you. You're feverish and hot and you're dying and you don't know why that feels so good. She's killing you, you're sure of it. One way or the other she's doing this to you or you're doing this to her and for some reason this is exactly what you want.

When she bites down your neck it's rougher than anything you've ever let anyone do to you before but somehow this isn't enough for you now. You bite down onto her fingers and your hips press into hers and god, you're burning up. Her mouth finds your nipple, and she sighs as she sucks and bites it through your top and you're distantly aware that you once complained over how that stupid thing didn't keep you warm but now it suddenly can't be thin enough for you. Your hand ends up in her hair, keeps her there. You know it's impossible for you to keep her somewhere she doesn't want to be which means that she lets you do this, that she wants this as well, and that lets you sigh.

You're still on the ground, stones pick into your back, your vision is blurry, you feel that your side is bleeding where she hit you earlier and the air is stale but you find yourself inhaling it when her hand finds her way into your leggings and between your legs.

It's the same hand that killed the only people you're left with in this special place in hell. Their blood is probably still on her and now on you too. She has killed _you_ more times than you can count and you've always dreaded her trials because of her face and her voice and god, she is so gross but now her fingers are in you and on you and you can't help yourself but to buck against her hand, to cry out, “Please, please, _please_ ”, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore, for her to fuck you, kill you, to (never) stop this, it doesn't matter, you just _want_.

For all you know she doesn't even understand English, you've never heard her say anything more than the same unintelligible phrases over and over again but you're pretty sure that begging is one of those things that transcends languages.

You look down at her still biting your chest. You can see your nipple through the material, you tell yourself that you're feeling the bruise form around it and you think you could cry because you know it'll be gone when you finally die here and return to the camp fire. You _really_ want to die when you catch yourself thinking about how you want to keep it.

Then she twists her fingers between your legs in just the right way and looks up at you. Her face is just as expressionless as before but her eyes burn into you and you swear your fever intensifies through her gaze alone. She's breathing harder than ever and you faintly hear her say something that you don't understand. It's when you see that her other hand is busy rubbing herself underneath her robes that your legs tremble around her hand and you come. You're actually crying now, your nails are digging into her skin, and you're trying to keep your eyes open while you're coming, you're trying to keep looking at her, afraid of what would happen if you dared to look away but you're struggling.

You think you can see her smile but you're not sure because you're on fire and you're burning up and you're dying, and you never want it to stop.

It does stop though.

Eventually.

Everything does sooner or later, except for this nightmare.

You have no idea when you return to your body, when you're not burning anymore and when you're finally able to take a breath. You nearly choke on it and fuck, what a joke would that be, to die now.

You're still dizzy and you feel weightless.

She's still on you, her face over yours but you can't see it clearly anymore, not really. Her hand is on your cheek, as if to softly brush through the tear stains left on your face. Her thumb skims over your lower lip and without thinking about it you instantly open your mouth for her. She groans as her thumb dips in, as her fingers grip your jaw and as your hips weakly buck up against her. Until her other hand keeps them down. You shiver when she carefully pulls away from you.

You're still crying, maybe you never stopped, but you can't really feel it.

She's gone before you know it.

You're left with a stale and nasty taste in your mouth but even as that thought makes it through you still find yourself staring at the place where you last saw her for a concerning amount of time. You're not entirely sure when you make it to the hatch or how you reach it because you can't really remember going through the motions. Suddenly you find yourself crawling through it, coming out on the other end without looking back once. You see the familiar camp fire, a calming spark in the darkness.

You know there's not a single bruise left on your body and yet you can still feel every single one of them. Can still feel that burning inside of you.

And that fever that just won't go down.

**Author's Note:**

> ...Thoughts? Prayers?
> 
> Also English still isn't my first language and this is only my second story on here so if you spotted a mistake, thought something sounds off or weird, please don't hesitate to tell me, I'd really appreciate it! <3
> 
> The title comes from a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley about the Black Death, btw, I thought it'd be fitting. :^)


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